Interrupt Handler
by Windsett
Summary: Turbo may have been the first serious threat the arcade ever faced, but he certainly wasn't the last. When several internal dangers are identified you have to be prepared to do what's necessary to defeat them, because tough love is often required, and sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind. *dark content warning*
1. System Alert

**AN: I've had the idea for this story kicking around my head for quite a while but never got around to writing it until now, after I took an unplanned break away from Wreck-It Ralph writing. To get back into writing for this fandom I started with this, but really didn't plan for it to get as long as it did – honestly, 14,000+ words is pretty crazy, and just…happened! But it's done now and I've got it out of my system, and will be concentrating on my multi-chapter stories now. This story is completed but I'm posting it in two parts - mainly because of its length, but also because it naturally ended up splitting itself into two slightly different styles. The second part features more dialogue, and will be up in a day or so. **

**This story is quite dark and bleak, but there aren't any really graphic descriptions in it though. However if you don't feel comfortable reading about people getting hurt then you shouldn't read this, as you won't like it. For those of you that do read it please accept my thanks for doing so, and my apologies for having such a dark and disturbed mind! **

* * *

_**interrupt handler**_

_/a small computer program released in response to a high priority system alert that requires immediate attention _

_/such an interruption to the processor's regular activities is designed to exist on a temporary basis only_

* * *

**I. System Alert**

Many games have entered and left Litwak's arcade since its creation, and for the most part their transitions have been anticipated and prepared for. But some games have fallen instead of grown; have experienced a sudden collapse rather than a controlled detonation; and left many characters associated with them being remembered for all the wrong reasons.

The first of these is Road Blasters, and the Surge Protector's still never been allowed to forget it.

The other characters have said and thought and still say and think and always _will_ say and always _will_ think that alright, fine, Road Blasters _had _just been plugged in and there wouldn't have been much time to put up a barrier to protect it even though it _could, _even though it _should_ have been done, but let's wave that to the side until it's convenient to pull it back in shall we; those poor new characters just switched on and then ripped right back out again such a shame, such a terrible shame, but it was sudden and unexpected and they probably didn't suffer too much, and who ever thought Turbo could have done that?

Who ever thought Turbo would have been _allowed _to do that?

* * *

Road Blasters naturally leads onto the second game, which many see as forever joined.

Not pointing fingers or anything but, you know, Turbo Time _had_ been plugged in for ages. It had been operational for _years_, so why hadn't a barrier been installed over that? Why hadn't the alert sounded and why wasn't anything done to stop Turbo's kart and why were those poor twins allowedto die like that?

Why were they just…_allowed _to die?

* * *

The third is Sugar Rush, but paradoxically this one hurts the least.

Fifteen years of dictatorial rule happening right under your nose is a lot to sink in, and the length of time is just too vast to take seriously. If someone had snuck in and messed about for an hour or a day or even a week it would be easier to accept as real, because that's believable and something you can relate to, but fifteen years?

_Fifteen years?_

* * *

The fourth game to be ruined under his watch happened three days ago.

It's recent enough to still seem slightly unreal, but seventy-two hours is _just_ about right for nothing else to have changed around the sucking black hole that's appeared where the console used to stand, and that unfair and slightly disgusting habit of everyday life occurring as if nothing has happened underlines the fact that something _has _happened.

Fix-It Felix Junior has only recently been ripped out of the arcade, and his sense of time is splintering.

* * *

After the Sugar Rush and Cy-Bug and Wreck-It Ralph incident, he had been the only one to warn against allowing the homeless characters to become part of Fix-It Felix Junior.

But there wasn't one other character that supported his viewpoint, and the will of the crowd was fierce. Against his better judgement he reluctantly coded them into the game for, as several of them pointed out, what was his purpose if not to protect and serve?

He did it, but stubbornly continued to explain to anyone who would listen that it was a manipulation too far, and decisions such as these shouldn't be made on the crest of a bright wave.

In response they either laughed at or argued with him, glad to be part of the in-crowd for once or just because they liked a good verbal exchange. The arcade was still awash with joy and relief and that temporary feeling of invincibility that the world really _is_ a good place, and look; for once it's aligning itself properly and nothing is impossible.

Well no-one had laughed when Mr Litwak had made a deal with a rich teenager and sold her the game.

A Fix-It Felix Junior console with bonus levels and characters was unique and popular, and brought in good business to the arcade. But then he'd received a pupil-dilating-sharp-intake-of breath _great_ offer, which had made him remove his glasses and wipe them vigorously.

Mr Litwak had of course refused the offer at first: the game was near family, and how could he part with that?

But he hadn't shown her the door or moved an inch, instead choosing to just stand there, breathing carefully and wringing his hands so that the glass lenses creaked in their frames.

The girl had cocked her head, put a hand on her hip, grinned and added another zero onto the end of her price.

Without making eye contact Mr Litwak had shook her hand and accepted it. He'd laughed nervously, distractedly, joking if she wanted to make the best use of her money and take the game away with her right now.

And then to everyone's surprise she replied that was _exactly_ what she wanted to do.

Before anyone could stop her she'd then torn the game's plug out, belatedly realised she probably should have turned it off first, grimaced, shrugged, and then made a call for someone to come and pick it up.

Still with his eyes to the ground Mr Litwak had silently stretched out a hand towards his office. She'd petted the console once, twice, smiled widely and then strode in the direction indicated, her shoes making a satisfying crunch as she crushed the small fragments of glass in her way.

* * *

By the end of this day, the first day, the arcade carries on working as if normal, but everyone's on auto-pilot and doing their best to implode silently.

He undertakes the random security checks as usual, hoping that a bit of regularity will at least try to stabilise something, anything, and the sooner it can be course corrected the…better?

Calhoun doesn't see it like this, and doesn't waste a second in coming to the point when he stops her.

'You're just doing this because you don't have anything else to do, so don't _dare_ try and pretend otherwise!' she screams into his face.

'This is-' he begins, before both her hands clamp around his neck and he's lifted off his feet.

'A pointless waste of time, yeah, I know! Don't have to be a blind puppy drowning in a bag to see things for what they are.' She squeezes tighter, her face a rictus of pain. 'Why don't you do something _right_ for a change?'

Calhoun drops him sharply, and when he doesn't move or say a word she looks at him in pure disgust and strides off.

'…not easy for me either,' he concludes under his breath, as he follows her back carving a path through the crowd.

He should have used an analogy to be more relatable, started off with that, but such things have never come easy to him and patience is at a premium now.

He tries to think of a character that has had a limb ripped from their body with no preparation, anaesthetic or prospects of aftercare, and is just expected to stem the bleeding and go on as normal with a crowd pleasing look about their face, but he comes up blank.

Even if he could use them as a parallel, he's sure it would be pointless.

* * *

By the morning of the second day they're bleeding pain and grief freely now, thickly and barely restrained, and he supposes it's his job to absorb it all, since his very purpose is to soak up dangerous surges of power that threaten to overwhelm everything in its path.

He supposes but doesn't _know_, but how else can he explain what's happening to him?

He's designed to absorb and store and then vent in a safe and controlled manner, but this is not happening.

It's all being absorbed and is building up and up and up and it's only when he's stumbled, one hand shot out against the wall to steady himself, eyes shut tight with a burning vice around his head, that he realises not one drop of it has been released.

* * *

It's in their eyes and faces and actions, all spoken and silent, that he allowed, just _allowed_ these things to happen; that he allowed, permitted, stood by, wrung his hands or looked the other way while another game crashed burned imploded when he didn't, he really _didn't_, because why on earth would he want that to happen?

Why would he want that to happen to _himself_?

He conducts the second round of security checks with an anxious impatience, because Calhoun is one of those suffering the most and that's probably a reason for her behaviour, it has to be a reason, but maybe the others won't be the same., so he makes an effort to do what they've accused him of never doing:

He acts.

He looks them directly in the eyes instead of keeping his head bowed, and when he questions them he asks the obvious ones he's intentionally overlooked before.

But, and this is what makes him choke back a sick laugh, it doesn't work.

Whoever he stops and questions keeps their eyes firmly averted, gives a response that is short and blunt and- and almost _fearful,_ and they don't dare mock him or even answer back and it's like the poles have been reversed and no-one's told him.

He's doing everything they ever wanted him to do and it _doesn't work_.

What more can he do when both directions lead him to dead ends?

What?

….what more does he _want_ to do?

* * *

The wall of pressure continues to build and the more he actively tries – the more he _does what they want him to do_ – the more they recoil.

He's always generated bored indifference or frustrated impatience in them before, but this is the first time he's managed to actively repel them.

He takes a step forward and they take two back; he asks questions harshly, sweetly, kindly and cruelly and their responses get shorter and quieter.

He looks at everything and takes it all in, doesn't miss a thing not a thing and he points this out to them, demonstrates it to them and _proves_ it to them that he's not letting anything get him past him again, not _ever_ again, and all they do is avert their gaze and shuffle past his wide unblinking stare, because if they don't look at it they can pretend it's not there.

The more he tries the more he fails, action and inaction they really _must_ be the same, two opposites that make a whole but where does he fit into this, bypassed over again, like a circuit rebuilding and completing itself around him _again_ and this foreign charge in him is still building and sloshing and pressing outwards like it's angry at being contained and now it's starting to eat through a layer and it's not going to stop and-

…and it hurts.

_Everything_ hurts.

* * *

Halfway through the second day it's a steady pressure behind his eyes and a deep ache inside his teeth.

It's a backwash of electric current that's mounting up like stagnant water behind a dam, drop by drop until an invisible ocean is forming in front of no-one, and it's building up so _quickly_ and so _completely_ that it's frightening, it really is scary, because this is an invasion against his will and beyond his comprehension.

It's an assault against his entirety, and what makes it worse is the sick sort of pride he feels that he can cope with it all.

* * *

By the end of the second day, when the arcade is closing and everyone's pouring out of their games, he knows that the particles are jostling and sloshing and lapping at his brim but it's not a problem, because all he has to do is close his eyes and the excess bleeds out that way.

Electrons, poles, waves and the unique science of the arcade mean nothing when one of those laws is breaking all over you, are of academic interest only, when there's a crawling itch blistering your skin and a layer of static coating your mouth, and you know that this isn't right it just isn't _right_, none of it is, but it's happening it's still actually _happening_, and you really _really_ should stop being so surprised when you're faced with this revelation yet again.

* * *

On the morning of the third day, when the arcade is opening and everyone's entering their games, he conducts several non-random security checks.

Mostly as a belated control for an experiment, to determine a half-baked theory he has about his condition, but also because he still hasn't yet learnt that hope is pointless and nothing more than a waste of time.

He stops them and some actually make unwitting eye contact for a split second, before they shut them tight and flinch as if about to be struck; they move as if they've glanced something obscene that shouldn't exist, sharp lines and burning blue, and they're right because it shouldn'texist but it _does._

They don't know how to define it or cure it or reverse it but they know it's there, that _something_ has changed about him, but he's always been strange and they have better things to worry about, so they do nothing and say nothing and just hope that it will soon pass away without a fuss.

* * *

By the end of the third day he watches it happen as if from a distance; as if he's disconnected from it and is looking at someone who could almost be himself.

If anyone were to ask him to describe it – not that they would of course why would they – he'd tell them to first of all picture a bottle.

Now imagine you're pouring drink out of that bottle into an empty glass, ice cold liquid splashing and the tang of it fizzing and you're sure you've done it right – you're sure you've calculated it correctly and you're pouring it with a flourish of confident anticipation, but it soon becomes clear that you're not right.

You haven't timed it or angled it right and you haven't been paying attention from the start, despite what you thought.

The liquid's faster and higher and more determined than you imagined possible, and with a start you realise that it's about to overflow.

It's not loud or dangerous and is mostly just irritating, as you realise it's too late to get a cloth to protect the table from the thick bubbles about to cover it, so you just wait and watch and let the damage take its course.

The foaming mess of bubble looks disastrous, but when it finally tips over the top its descent is slow and somewhat…_reluctant_, and you wonder why you'd been so alarmed about it in the first place, because you haven't lost that much after all.

It spits its way down onto the surface, and in brief indifference you wonder if there had been enough time to get that protection after all, as you sigh in annoyance and look half-heartedly about for it, all the while missing that micro-thin top layer that's being eaten into and permanently destroyed.

* * *

He knows that although your programming can be bent if you have the will or receive the necessary stimulus, it cannot be completely broken.

Even if you hacked into a code box and completely re-wired it, it just wouldn't work.

But that's OK, because he has no desire to change who he is and, despite everything, he hasn't found himself spun round to face the other way.

* * *

He tells Calhoun first, because she deserves to know and because she deserves to be thanked. She also deserves to be prepared, and since he's still fair he's giving her a chance to pick the signs up. If _she_ is still so consumed by something else that she's unable to function properly, then it only supports what he's about to do.

He stops her on her way into Tappers, and notices that she's still making eye contact with him. She's the only one to continue doing so - a fact for which he's always been glad - which makes him curious as to why he's disappointed he no longer feels this way.

'You've got a-'

'You're right,' he interrupts her, which may actually have been the first time he's done so, to her or to anyone.

She narrows her puffy eyes and crosses her arms tightly across her chest, her reluctant silence an invitation for him to continue.

'When you say that _I_ need to do something right. For…for a_ change_.'

She tilts her head just as the door of Tappers flies open and a burst of noise explodes out of the bar. The door swings on its hinges to crash into the wall as a group piles into it and he blinks slowly as it does so, enhanced light streaking across his glasses, before it swings back again and closes loudly.

The rowdy noise from the bar is cut off abruptly, leaving them in a silence just as artificial, and Calhoun is looking down at him in something that could almost be described as-

'About goddamn time,' she spits, before he can put his finger on what her face was trying to say.

He nods, blinks again.

'I will see you later,' he promises her dully, clearly, emotionlessly as he turns and leaves and the bar's door has swung open again and smashed into the wall again and has released another wave of magnified noise again.

The door completes its rhythm with a slam, and he doesn't have to turn around to know that Calhoun is still standing motionless in its shadow.

* * *

Everyone _was_ right, he's finally concluded.

Or has he finally _accepted_ that they were right?

Has he been… _forced_ to accept it?

He doesn't know but it doesn't matter, of course it doesn't matter, because everything's slightly hazy and empty now and he's gone past the point of pretending to care. He's been saturated with fear and guilt and who knows what else and then upended, and they're right when they say he hasn't been doing his job properly they _must_ be right, and the only way to correct himself is to correct _them_.

He's been too lax with them, he knows this now, and he only has himself to blame, now that _is_ the truth.

He's allowed anyone to visit any game they felt like at any time, and looked the other way when illegal objects were being smuggled out in front of him.

Well no more.

No

_more_.

He will now be strict and uncompromising, and will never allow anyone to get hurt again. He'll never allow himself to be _blamed_ again, but that's hardly the prime directive here of course.

Popularity doesn't matter, but doing his job does.

But before this new administration can be implemented arcade wide – before this safer and more secure form of supervision can be established – he needs to remove some dangerous elements that still exist in it.

Some walking, talking, self-aware elements that, once removed, will help tip the scales back into balance again.

They won't like what will happen to them, but it will be for their own good.

They will be dealt with professionally and will be cured, and the other characters will be safe and secure. They will be protected and spared and he might then be able to start sleeping again.

And if he's going to do this, then he's going to do it properly.

And if he's going to do it properly, then he's going to _describe _it properly.

He needs to safeguard both himself and everyone in the arcade, which means he doesn't need to implement some new procedures and ask them politely to follow them.

He doesn't need to target selected characters for a slight adjustment, and he certainly doesn't need to re-model or re-organise or re-structure them.

What he _does_ need to do is to purge them.

* * *

A large number of gas discharge tubes form part of his system, which contain a special mixture to absorb high voltage spikes of dangerous electricity.

He runs a finger along one of the neon green containment tubes, its contents swirling thickly, and reminds himself just how easy the procedure to keep the gas safely contained is.

It's simple to understand and activate and maintain, and will be just as easy to reverse.

It will require a bit of coordination to get everyone together in one place, but the end results will be worth it.

* * *

He locks down the arcade that evening, in the early hours when all is dark and no-one's moving.

With a calm certainty bordering on nonchalance he reverses the electrical current, opens the gas vents into each game, and disables their internal warning alarms.

He sits back slowly and, with his left thumb, clicks the stop-clock held in the same hand.

Speed isn't the primary concern here, but it will be interesting to see how long they take to get out.

* * *

After forty three seconds most games have emptied themselves.

Most characters had moved hesitantly towards their exit at first but, when they had realised exactly what was happening, they had _run._

If they had been human their lungs would have begun to burn from each intake of breath, and their skin would have begun to blister and peel. But they weren't, and their equivalent was to glitch and pixelate into different colours as the gas began to corrode their code.

Some of the characters didn't make it outside into Game Central Station in time, but that was hardly his fault. He couldn't leave the doors open forever, or else the gas would affect the Station itself.

If they were too slow to react that was a flaw with their design, nothing he can do about that, and if they weren't important enough to be remembered or to be helped then that is a burden for their colleagues to bear, not him.

* * *

After forty four seconds he hits the stop-clock again, and sighs as he looks at the time.

The result is disappointing, and he makes a mental note to organise practice drills for the ones that will be left.

After forty five seconds he presses a letter on the keyboard in front of him, and leans in close towards the monitor.

The confirmation warning flashes across his face, blood red streaks highlighting the dark office he sits in, asking him if he's sure he'd like to proceed.

Yes, he is indeed sure.

…he's _very_ sure.

After forty six seconds he depresses the key again, eyes fixed to the screen, and wonders why he ever programmed it to flash and shimmer as if it's in pain.

As if it's… _accusing_ him.

He leans back into the chair slowly, elbows on the arm rests and hands clasped lightly in his lap, and sits back in comfort, in perfect posture, and lets his eyelids become branded with the sight.

* * *

Inside Game Central Station metal blast doors abruptly descend over the entrance to each game, sealing them off with a pneumatic hiss.

The digital boards spelling out each game's name stop mid-scroll, and a second later their backgrounds simultaneously wipe into pitch black. Florescent yellow biohazard symbols appear in the middle of them, and began to throb out of sync.

The Public Service Announcement stations follow suit, as Sonic is silenced and replaced with the toxic warning signs.

These ones are larger, and rotate slowly.

The lights dim, and there's a collective intake of breath as everyone struggles to understand what's happening. A cloud of anxious mutterings fill the hall, interspersed with questions and peppered with hesitant irritation.

The lights then flicker, and alarms begin to wail.

The atmosphere in the packed Station tightens, and a few sobs escape as everyone tenses closer together.

Some clearer headed characters try to access the help booth's computer terminal, but find the screen dead.

A few have even remembered where the emergency exit hatches are, but when they find them inexplicably sealed shut they exclaim in despair. This information sparks and spreads quickly, its ripple of panic swelling into a wave of characters surging towards a door, any door, just to try and-

The lights go out, plunging everyone into liquid blackness.

Sharp screams are the only things that escape, and several characters are crushed in the desperate stampede that follows.

Strobing orange emergency lights are activated, and mix in with the bright yellow pulses of the biohazard signs.

The Station is illuminated in industrial colours and awash with desperate sounds, and the wave of attempted escape folds back upon itself in critical confusion again and again and again.

* * *

He watches it all with a sort of detached bemusement.

Crowds are fickle and pathetically easy to control, especially when he knows how they would react individually. But he doesn't want to control the crowd; he only wants to adjust a select few individuals and, once he has them cured, the rest will follow. These chosen ones may not see their treatment as, well, _treatment_, but sometimes the bitterest medicine is the most effective.

Sometimes tough love is required, and sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind.

* * *

As soon as a game was plugged in, he would write a block of code to allow each character to leave it.

Everyone would freely give him permission for him to access their code room and make the necessary adjustments, so pathetically eager were they to go exploring and make new friends. No-one had ever bothered to ask him what he would do their code, and certainly not what _else_ could be done to it.

He supposes he should feel grateful that they trusted him so readily and completely, but he only feels disdain towards them, because they will allow – they will _thank_ – someone for manipulating the very threads of their existence without even bothering to ask about it.

Well if they're not concerned by that, then they have no right to then take the high ground when they eventually find out what else he's done to it.

* * *

All it takes is three strokes of a keyboard to activate the secret layer of code he'd buried in them.

It's quite ingenious the way he managed to compress such a complex action into so few chains of binary, but he's not going to hold his breath that anyone will ever applaud him for it.

He enters the final command into the computer, and receives confirmation that the selected three have been removed from the Station and placed into… more secure holding facilities.

Yes, that sounds about right.

…that sounds… _right_.

* * *

The three had been surrounded by friends and colleagues and sympathisers, and as soon as they had vanished into the flickering blackness the screaming had kicked up a gear.

Perhaps the ones remaining know what it feels like to be compressed on all sides now, seeing those walls squeeze closer and quicker and tighter and just _knowing _that it won't stop until it's crushed something once thought immovable out of you.

But they've got the ability to steady and re-arrange themselves if only they _focus_, and they don't know just how lucky they are.

* * *

The screaming and wailing alters pitch into something higher, something primal, as concern for others descends into the possibility that they will be next.

If he felt it appropriate to smile, he believes he would do so wryly.

Self-preservation is frowned on by many even though it's carried out by all, and he doesn't understand why they should feel guilty about it.

It's natural and useful and he doesn't blame them for it, will _never_ blame them for it.

Why would he, when he's doing the exact same thing?


	2. Threat Neutralisation

**AN: Sorry it took a bit longer than the promised day or so to get this part up, but it's done now and this is the final concluding part. But, urgh, my dark and disturbed mind. Believe it or not I do really love all of these characters, despite what I put them through! Thank you for reading, and please forgive me for this. **

* * *

**II. Threat Neutralisation**

'These are simple procedures, Private,' he assures the soldier strapped heavily to the chair in front of him, voice working to be steady but for some reason not succeeding. 'There really is no need to struggle you know, so just stop, _stop_; there- there really is no _point_!'

A whiplash of heat behind his eyes and he's blinking quickly, harshly, wondering why there's a line of sweat rolling down his brow and why he's just _said_ all of that and said it so _loudly_, because the sedative is working perfectly and Markowski isn't struggling at all.

He blinks again, chest heaving, this time slower and surer, and sees that Markowski, the first of the three he removed for treatment, _is_ moving but in a way to be expected: sluggish, hesitant and definitely non-threateningly. The Solider is slowly trying to understand what's just happened to him and why it's _still_ continuing and why everything about him just feels so _wrong_.

It doesn't take long for the drug to wear off completely, and it's quite interesting to watch the melting sequence of images Markowski contorts his face into, which are clear for him to see underneath the bright light burning onto him.

The room they're in is small and square; it's one of the outer chambers to the circuit breaker that encircles the entirety of Game Central Station, hidden neatly underneath its main floor. All of the chambers are completely soundproof, so there's no chance of them being disturbed by the desperate stampede of feet and the wail of sirens that's still roiling above their heads.

This work is important, and he can't afford distractions.

He's cut off all the lights in the room except for one large surgical lamp that's angled directly into Markowski's face; its sodium white beam is harsh, and it shows up every pore until it reaches his neck. This is where the light ends, for the rest of the soldier's body and the entire room itself is encased in pitch black. It's so dark and consuming outside of this small tunnel of light that it locks out even his own glowing blue form. He's invisible until he moves into that narrow field of light and this is how he wants it, it's- no; it's…it's how it _needs_ to be.

Yes, how it _needs_ to be.

A narrow beam to give focus, direction, and he's hardly _hiding_ in the dark when he moves into that light, and definitely not hesitating when he slowly stretches a hand, an arm, a glinting blade into it because he's just being _careful_, precise, since he's made a vow not to let things go wrong ever again.

He tilts half of his face into that light, leaving one part in shadow and bleaching the other half white-blue, as he leans in closer just as Markowski is climbing up into anger, those lips twisting and teeth appearing and breathing coming short, but all it takes is a sharp scalpel at his throat to cut this down before it grows.

'You are…_damaged_, and need to be rectified; you- you need to be re-_calibrated_,' he tells Markowski blandly, as he holds the bright steel carefully along his neck. Below the jawline, over the voice box, blade flat against the skin and Markowski's eyes are now flicking down to it before shooting up to meet his own, and the soldier's voice is forced out in a rasp.

'…what?'

'Infection needs to be cut out before the entire body becomes corrupted,' he explains slowly, because Markowski is still looking bewildered and he'd prepared himself to be patient, he knows the Private is slow, but the trundling thought process behind the man's skull still makes him grip the instrument tighter.

'Certain parts of you are not…_suitable_ for the environment in which you find yourself. They are not…_advantageous_ to your primary place of continued existence.'

'I…_what?_ I- I don't understand, what- what are you-'

He exhales slowly, heavily, and looks Markowski deep into his eyes, pleased that the man looks away quickly, but not so pleased that there's still a fire smouldering inside them.

'After one week you left your game because you couldn't handle it.'

He pauses, waits for a reaction and, in a rush, like a trigger's been pulled, Markowski doesn't disappoint.

'It was all those _bugs!_ Again and again and _again_ they kept coming, kill and be killed over and over and over and do you have _any_ idea what it's like to _feel_ like that? To be on a huge great wheel with no chance of escape or hope of something better, and-' Markowski cuts himself off, the look in his face suggesting that he's said too much and not a word of it is helping.

Markowski takes a breath, and sits up as straight as his bonds allow, voice carefully modulated to convey confidence. 'But that is all in the past now. I have conquered my fears and am operating at maximum efficiency within acceptable parameters of error. I- I am correct and stable and will _never_ abandon my game again. I am a solider and I _will_ do my duty.'

His unblinking look continues to bore into the solider in front of him. 'But there should never have _been_ an error,' he explains slowly, clearly, condescendingly. 'The error was on _my_ part by allowing you to participate in the first place. I…failed to diagnose your problem, I- failed to detect the… _instabilities_ in your code as soon as your game was plugged in, and for that – for _all_ of it – I apologise.'

Markowski is now looking at him in wary confusion. 'There…is no problem. Not- not any more there isn't; I'm fine! _Fine!_'

He shakes his head. 'No, you're not and yes, there is. In fact there are…several problems.' He leans in closer, allowing the light to show more of him.

'And they need to be removed.'

Markowski swallows, and the blade moves with it. '…what-'

'Parts of you cannot cope with your game's demands, and it's in your best…interests if they're removed. It's in the best interests of _others_ if they're removed.'

He scrapes the blade up, slowly up, until it's covering those lips, that mouth. 'Like this. Fear is infectious, and something even I don't have a cure for. I…know that you understand how vital the control of information is, and why personal…feelings, personal _fears_, must be wrapped up and contained and never shared with others, less it brings them pain and misery. Less it brings them into _danger_.'

Markowski inhales sharply, as the flat of the blade is pressed down.

He presses down harder, and sees that Markowski wants nothing more than to close his eyes shut. But the man can't, because there are wire thin metal claws forcing his eyes open, and Markowski is denied the chance of oblivion.

'They must no doubt haunt your dreams, those bright green eating bugs of yours,' he continues, as he lifts the blade up and changes its position, the tip now pointing down at where his tongue lies hidden behind tight lips. 'So it's best that you don't speak of them again.'

He lowers the blade carefully, oh so carefully, until the barest point of the tip is touching Markowski's cheek, but even this feather light contact is enough to make the Solider moan and slowly, yes oh so slowly so that the skin is never broken and no mark is left, he trails a path with it from the soldier's lips down to his jaw line tracing the curve of it up and around until it touches his ear.

'It's best that you don't _hear_ them again.'

He then slides the blade to rest underneath an eye, the right eye, its pupil wide and blown and leaking steadily from all sides.

'And it's certainly best that you don't _see_ them again.'

Markowski sucks in a breath and then explodes, tortured eyes alight and teeth bared sharp as he prepares to go down fighting.

'This- you're wrong! All of this is _wrong_, it's sick so wrong and _you're_ sick and as soon as I get back into my game I'm gonna regenerate and then I'm gonna _hunt_ you down!'

The logic is flawless, and he nods his head in respect of it.

Nods his head down slowly, but doesn't raise it back up. '…if you _were_ to go back into your game, then that would indeed be something for me to worry about.'

It takes a few seconds for Markowski to process these words, but when he finally does so he jerks as if he's been slapped, his mouth now gaping and wiped clean of proud defiance, as he uselessly tries to fight against his bonds.

The soldier's train of thought would be clear to read even in the dark, so to save some time he verbalises the questions and provides their answers before his patient gets a chance to.

'The players will not miss you because you are indistinguishable from the other soldier NPCs. You are not programmed to speak or to do anything…_unique_, such as interacting with them, so if they don't see you running around not saying a word no alarm will be raised because everything will be normal. You should…_really_ know by now that I would _never_ expose your game to that degree of risk.'

He watches the soldier's face collapse, but before the objections can start he raises his voice and overrides them.

'You are not going to be deleted, Private, so you can stop that train of thought before it starts. What do you take me for? Everyone needs protecting sometimes, even soldiers, it doesn't _matter_ what type of character you are, but you have to respect this difference and understand that different _forms_ of protection are therefore required. Everyone needs protecting, from- from power surges, from bugs and dangers outside of their game and- …and even sometimes from thems_elves_.'

He holds the blade steady, pleased with these words, but they haven't settled him and he's starting to doubt and that's _not_ what he wants and not what he _deserves_, and before he knows it he feels his other hand clenching into a fist.

'It-this will all be _right_; it will be as it should be. You will be _happier _for this Private, because you will no longer have to see your death approach you; you'll be spared the…the unfair _agony_ of watching your end approach and then consume you as you- as you just _stand_ there, motionless_, powerless, _wondering why it's happening and knowing it can't be stopped can't be changed and you know that _every_one's looking but no-one's _seeing_, because all they care about and all they do is-'

He puts the brakes on sharply, hotly, wondering how his voice got so loud and why he's sweating again, when he knows the room's temperature is hovering just above zero.

'So…so then why- why remove-' Markowski's voice cracks and falters, unwilling to say out loud what's about to be done.

A loaded silence is the first answer, but when it hasn't worked and Markowski's face hasn't change, he exhales softly and is forced to vocalise it.

'Because you cannot control yourself. You are a loose element. You are a _threat_; you…you are a threat to _others_, and you must be cauterised. If it all suddenly becomes too much for you again, who can predict the next character you'll off load onto? Complaining about your game and the horrors you have to face, and who can tell what _impact_ that will have on them? Ralph saw your words as an opportunity, but in the ears of another you might scare them; you might…_terrify_ them, and cause them harm – cause _more_ people harm, and do you _really_ want that on your conscience?'

He breathes in, and the chain of events Markowski helped set off when he met Ralph in Tappers stutters like a film strip before him, neon green and dark silver, each image flickering after the other at obscene speed, and no matter how much he want to press pause and rewind it he can't help but watch it through to its inevitable conclusion.

'Our actions have a long reaching consequence, Private, even if we have no idea what they may be.'

He breathes out, and feels himself begin to steady.

'…please…' Markowski whispers, as he stares into the set face in front of him.

'…you're welcome,' he replies softly, almost slowly, as he moves the blade up carefully to the bottom of that eye, all white and wide and welcoming. He pauses for a beat, for just a second, as he presses the metal down onto the rim; into the lower line of eyelashes, as he considers and then repeats himself, surprisingly relieved that this time the words feel lighter but settle heavier.

'You're _wel_come.'

He steadies his grip on the blade as he looks into that eye, and slowly pierces it with the tip.

* * *

That treatment had gone perfectly, it– well OK it had gone _almost_ perfectly, if he's being completely honest with himself.

He wasn't prepared for Markowski to _struggle _so much and to make so much _mess_, because why would you fight against someone that only wants to help you? He'll check on the solider afterwards, and if the man's finally stopped thrashing about he'll clean up the chamber and then transfer him to that safe room, so he can be unstrapped and finally be at ease.

Yes, he's confident the Private will eventually thank him; in fact he's more confident of everything now, second time round and, as he once again checks that the door of this second outer chamber is locked, he wonders why he ever felt unsteady in the first place.

It's faintly bemusing really.

He makes his way slowly back to the middle of the room, and is met with yet another scowl.

It's unlikely she will be thanking him any time soon, which is…disappointing, but not wholly surprising.

Maybe he's finally realised that he'll _never _be thanked for his good work, for just doing his job, and that using the opinions of others to measure your happiness and sense of worth is the most self-destructive lie you choose to buy into.

Unlike her subordinate, Sergeant Calhoun doesn't need to be sedated.

She's also free to blink her eyes and look daggers at him, which is exactly what she's doing now, even though it's clear those blades are dull and cracked.

She can also scream and threaten and promise all she likes because she's not going anywhere, nowhere at all; not when she's on her back with her arms stretched behind her head and her legs pointing straight, and even if her feet are broken at the ankles to make an unnaturally straight line it's nothing to get too worried about because it's all only _temporary_; it's all only _necessary_, and once she's returned to her game she can die and regenerate and be right back to normal.

He's going to _make_ her back to normal, because her…_condition_ – what she _thinks_ is her condition – is most definitely _not_ what one calls normal.

It's dangerous because she believes it to be true, and he wouldn't be doing his job properly if he didn't protect them from themselves.

'This isn't just for your own good,' he explains kindly. 'It's for _everyone's_ benefit that you're helped.'

'Including your own?' she spits accusingly, every line of contempt and pain in her face harshly highlighted by the blinding lights they're immersed in.

The surgical lights studded throughout this room flood every inch of it, so that the floor walls ceiling all merge into one, creating a pure white cube with a nucleus of matte black and neon blue pulsing at is core.

'…well, yes, I _do_ intend for this to be to my…no, not- not _advantage_, but rather to my… image,' he concludes, pleased with that choice of words. 'Yes,' he nods, to himself to her to everyone, as he looks down at her and realises it's so _nice_ not to have to strain his neck up for a change, but let's not deviate now.

'Your _what?_' she exclaims sharply, before breaking off into a coughing fit that racks her entire frame.

He taps the instrument against the side of his leg, seeing that she's still not broken but still not _understanding_.

Her coughing eases to a stop, and when she's got her breath back he's moved closer, lower, regarding her torso with a professional curiosity.

She opens her mouth to speak again, but the words twist into laughter as she closes her eyes and threatens to cough up her lungs again.

He sighs, and is glad his initial flare of hope was nowhere near as bright as it used to be. Time is ticking on and this is getting weary, so he shifts down a gear and executes his blunted point.

'You are not pregnant Sergeant,' he states crisply, as he raises the stainless steel instrument and points it at her. 'What you do have is a delusion brought on by stress and grief,' he continues, as he wipes the side of it with the thumb of his other hand. 'I've examined your source code, and no errors were detected.'

'What?' she exclaims abruptly, her voice now clear and sharp. 'You broke into my game's _code_ _room_?'

She looks at him in genuine disbelief, as if it's the worst thing she's experienced and heard to date, and that once again she can choose to override anything she doesn't like the sound of.

'And when exactly did I give my consent for _that?_''

He…he's momentarily lost for words, that's what he is, as he blinks once, twice, and has to force himself not to sway.

How…how can she _say_ that? She allowed him to tamper with her code for frivolous personal reasons as soon as she was plugged in oh yes that's no problem, please go right ahead, go on, do what you want, I don't even need to bother watching you it's not that important; I just want to leave my game and go exploring, but now you dare to look at – not even touch, just _look at_ – my code to try and help me and Programmers have Mercy, it's an assault! Sound the alarm! I didn't want that would never want it, why on earth would I? You're overstepping your mark and you should be goddamned ashamed of your sick self for even _thinking_ of doing such a thing no wonder everyone around here hates the very _sight_ of you.

That band is settling comfortably around his head again and he grips the tool tight, channelling it that way as he keeps his face blank.

'It is not _possible,' _he repeats himself, tone blank and steady not because he doesn't care but because he _does_ care. 'It's not even possible for characters to be…_created_ that way; it's just _not_.'

He knows that she's been whispering to another about her…_supposed _condition, and how it seems unlikely but it must be true, because she feels different, feels _something_, and it can only mean one thing no matter how improbable. It also means that Felix hasn't really gone, not really completely, and they'll name the baby after everyone who was cruelly taken from them and so in that sense no-one will really die forever either.

He also knows that even though there was no mutation in her source code, that doesn't mean one hasn't been created.

He's not…_deluded_ enough to suspect he knows everything, especially when it comes to coding and the liquid evolution of numbers that define you. And because he's cautious and doesn't want to take the risk, he also knows that he needs to investigate what the code _could_ have generated.

Which means he has to investigate _her_.

It's why she's being stretched as long as she can go, so that he can examine her in one fell swoop, one quick go; no need to prolong the procedure with multiple operations because that would just be _cruel. _

He'll only need a light pressure to break the skin and then he'll run it; carve one continuous line from the tip of her middle finger right down until her toes, exposing her so he can see if it exists and then he can remove it, make her better.

…he can make it _all _better.

'How do you know it's not possible?' she demands. 'Not everything is created in your precious code rooms you know. You've said it yourself and_ I_ know first-hand that some things just _evolve_, so why can't this be true? Have you even _checked?_ If this is brand new and genuine then there _won't_ be a way for you to check. The best thing is to let things take their course, then if – _if_ – it's a mu-mutation _then_ you can act. Just…wait. Please, just- just wait and see; wait and see what happens and _then_ act.'

Oooohhhhh, but doesn't she have a _nerve_.

_Wait and see_.

What would have happened if he'd used this argument before?

_Why yes, I __**did**__ actually know that Turbo was planning on game jumping; I saw the fluctuations in his code, just a ripple, and it was a split second before he decided to leave but I wanted to wait and see what happened, so I did nothing._

_And then I was alerted to him racing out of his game in his kart into Game Central Station, of course I knew that, but I didn't want to __**judge**__ him you see; I didn't want to pass sentence without trial, so I did nothing because I wanted to wait and see._

_And __**then**__ my warnings flooded me with data that he'd raced into Road Blasters, all red and white and screaming, but rather than even __**try**__ to initiate an emergency shutdown I thought that I'd just wait and see, because maybe he just wanted to talk to them, maybe just blow off steam; I didn't __**know**__ that he'd crash them and get two games unplugged so you can't blame me at all, can you?_

_**Can you?**_

He realises that he's breathing heavily and holds the next inhalation in his chest; sharply, painfully, deservingly, knowing that a flush is spreading up his neck and doesn't she just have the _nerve_ to suggest all of that.

'I won't ever take such a risk and you are wrong to think I ever _would_,' he spits at her, knowing his composure is slipping but it's so _hard _to keep it level, keep it balanced, and has it _always_ beenthis difficult to keep yourself aligned?

She's looking at him differently now, a grain of superiority in her eyes and a- yes, a trace of _humour_ about her lips. 'Mighty rich words comin' from someone waving a blade about like they're fightin' off ghosts.'

Another exaggeration since his light grip and the slightly elevated position of his arm is hardly _waving it about_, and again it's not strictly just a _blade_, and this all just proves that she's not thinking clearly and that her mind is unstable. Pieces of it have become tainted and fractured; they're untethered and rubbing freely, and it's his duty to remove them, clean them and then hammer what remains back into place again.

'You are deluded in the sense that you think you are _pregnant_ Sergeant Calhoun. However you may _not_ be wrong when you sense that you have something inside of you.'

She quietens, body frozen but eyes scrolling as she considers this.

She considers it briefly before her face reveals that she's rejected his diagnosis; that she's _chosen_ to reject it, even though she's clearly wrong and he's in the right and it's so _disappointing_ that she's not as smart as he once thought she was.

It really _is_ a good thing that he's here to correct her mistakes and wipe her chalkboard clean, or who knows what other dangers she could allow herself to drown in?

'Ever tested the theory out that _you're_ the one deluded here?' She finally responds. 'And that- and that even_ if_ I am wrong, _you're_ in the wrong as well?'

Now he's the one pausing; rolling these words around his head, as if they can be checked and verified but why is he even doubting, because he knows they can be.

They can be checked for accuracy right now just by _looking_ at her.

Even before she was stretched out her posture was all wrong: ash white skin and sunken cheeks and all hunched over when she walked and he _knows _this isn't the result of Felix being gone he just _knows_, because she didn't act like this after she first got plugged in; not after Brad not ever. Something is eating her up from the inside, and even though he can't clarify what it is, he _does_ know what it isn't. He just...does. Must be, does, yes he _does_ know stop even thinking of doubting yourself.

And besides, someone who's been plugged in for weeks instead of decades can't _possibly_ know what true grief tastes like; can't possibly know what it's like to be inflicted with a cut as soon as the previous one's closed, cut heal cut heal cut heal again and again so that you're never completely whole and never truly healed.

It's inappropriate of her to even suggest it, which is why he's right and she's wrong and _he'll_ be the one to fix her this time.

He _has_ to be the one to fix her; to fix all of this; to fix his mistakes and their contagions because if not him then who?

_Who? _

…exactly.

'Please try not to struggle Sergeant,' he instructs blandly, as he places the rim of the cutting wheel onto her finger. 'It will only hinder our progress.'

'No, wait_! Stop!_' she yells, convulsing in fear this time instead of anger, instead of pain, and why is it in fear? What on _earth_ has she got to be afraid of?

He would say that the logic escapes him, but it has to have existed in the first place for this to be true.

'Don't kill-'

'I am not _killing _anyone,' he interrupts coldly. 'This procedure is to explore and then possibly remove an unstable chin of code from you. This has to be done, because what if you're contagious? What if there _is_ something inside of you, and by allowing it to go unchecked you put others at risk? _You_ are a potential risk, and I am merely doing my job by investigating it, determining it and then neutralising it. I cannot, _will not_, take any more chances or risks or be content with pouring out half-measures any more. This time I'm going to be sure, this time I'm going- I'm going to be _right_.'

He takes in a breath and feels his face soften, as he grips the table's edge with his free hand. 'It is not possible for me to destroy that which does not exist, and- and do you not remember what I'm programmed to be? Do you not remember who I _am_?'

She gives a constricted nod, and tears blossom at the corner of her eyes.

'Yes,' she whispers, the sound like dead leaves skimming along a concrete floor. 'I know _exactly_ who you are.'

He nods in turn. 'Then we are in accord.'

She closes her eyes, as if in capitulation, and this is when he makes the mistake of relaxing slightly.

It's an ease of tension in his arms as he leans in closer, nearer; calculating the pressure and angle of the serrated wheel that will bring her the least discomfort, when all of a sudden she's snapped her eyes open and yanked her head up; mouth wide open fierce teeth gleaming as she defies her boundaries and stretches her constraints and _sinks_ her teeth into his arm.

He yelps in pain and surprise, jerking his arm away but not letting go of the wheel.

One jerk is not enough to dislodge the iron clamp in his arm, and tears are starting to form in his own eyes as he realises he still has another hand to use. He lets go of the table and strikes her once, twice, three times in the throat until she's finally opened her mouth to choke in air.

He staggers slightly and has to grip the table again, as he examines the damage she's inflicted on his arm.

'If Felix were here he could fix that for you,' she croaks, her blazing eyes streaming thick tears down her face. 'But thanks to you he's _not_, so he _can't._'

With lightning speed he sinks the wheel hard into her finger, cutting it to the bone.

'Well Felix can't fix this,' he hisses, as he swings his arm and splits her open.

* * *

He can admit he lost control there for a bit, the second time round.

But it wasn't completely his fault, anyone could see that, and this time; well this time will be just right. He's learnt from his mistakes – is _still_ learning from them – which clearly proves he's adjusted and normal and _right_.

Only a fool or a sadist perpetuates errors on purpose – they don't even _know_ they're in error sometimes – but because he isn't and because he _does_, he _knows_ that he's on the right level, the right path; he knows that he's being calibrated at the same time he's helping them do the same and that's good, it's all _good_.

Everything just needs to be balanced, that's all.

Which naturally includes this final patient and the room they're being treated in.

It's fully illuminated but not blinded by light, and there are no dark spaces to…not that he ever has, _did_; but there are no dark spaces to…_retreat_ to; to slink back into, as if you're ashamed or scared and that's all ridiculous because he has no _need_ to do those things, and he's merely acknowledging the possibility because that's _sensible_.

The light in the room is warm and filling – not consuming – and every surface is clearly defined but not put on show. His tools are hidden until they're needed, since there's no need to scare or to show off now, is there?

There's no need for _reassurance_.

He's even…decorated the room for her; he's altered the visuals to create colourful images on the walls and on the ceiling, make it easier make it brighter, because she's not in trouble here _despite_ what she no doubt thinks.

And, yes, all this involved a _slight_ manipulation of the arcade's code streams but it was only a tiny tweak, nothing much at all and, really, when you stopped and thought about it he was only altering part of the physical surge protector itself.

He was only enhancing part of himself again so that he could help someone _else_ again.

'Choose this wallpaper with your eyes closed, did ya?' She questions cynically, focusing his attention.

'…pardon?'

Her mouth is twisted and one eyebrow's raised, and there's a clear bite of dark humour to her words. 'Bet you had loads of, you know, _fun,_ doin' this place up, huh?'

He frowns. 'I…don't quite understand what you're-'

'Clowns?' she barks, her voice louder, clearer, as the other eyebrow joins its partner skywards. 'Circus pictures? You yankin' on my chain here? Not enough to kidnap me and strap me to a table in another prison cell is it, but you- but you gotta _decorate_ it like he did?'

He's genuinely confused now. 'I… _no_; they're- they're not here to un_nerve_ you; they're here to _comfort_ you.'

She's still looking at him like a piece of filth she's unexpectedly found stuck to her, which means his elaborated explanation comes out more irritable than he'd have liked.

'During a tertiary level scan- during the necessary _diagnostic_ – of your code, those images showed up repeatedly. But they were not in isolation. They appeared in conjunction when your code also indicated that you had experienced times of great stress and sadness, which meant they-…such a pattern clearly indicates that you saw them at times of great distress, which therefore means you visualised them in an attempt to help you cope with your situation, whatever _that_ may have been. You must have imagined these images when you were sad to try and comfort yourself. I- I knew you would think _this_ situation is a bad one even though it's _not_, and so I re-created them to try and put you at ease here; to try and help you even _more_.'

He takes a deep breath, and feels his frown sink deeper. 'And who do you mean by _he?' _

She holds her own breath for a second, for two seconds, now for three; not moving a muscle as she processes his words and handles and dissects them and it's almost as if she's analysing _him,_ with those deep eyes that prove she's older than her looks suggest, and then all of a sudden she's _erupted_: eyes closed head thrown back as far as it can and she _laughs_.

So _darkly_ she laughs at him, small body shuddering as he swallows and makes double fists with his hands.

'Oh, _man_ that's right, you never knew! You never knew because I never told ya; most of the others sure, yeah, eventually; but not you, I- I never told you where he _kept_ me all those years and what it looked like, what was on the walls and what he _painted_ for me. You- you never knew what pictures he painted in the fungeon, but- but you've gone and done exactly the same!' She laughs louder, but it's a desperate sound now. Her mouth has collapsed and tears have sprung into her eyes, which are now wide open and looking at him desperately.

'How did you- why? _Why_ would you do something like this to me?'

His head is thumping hard and he feels distinctly sick, but one dry swallow is all it takes to ensure his voice is steady, as he tries to claw at a memory, at a piece of information he knows to be true and supportive as he answers her but he _can't_. 'I- I didn't know that, no! I didn't know _any_ of that, and I'm sor-'

'You don't know _any_thing!' she cries.

He swallows again, this time drier, harder, his tongue ripping from the roof of his mouth as he pivots around sharply and thrusts his hands into his pockets.

She must be lying, he decides, as his sudden headache contracts into a single point of pain, white hot sharp and drilling down happily. Yes, she must have been mistaken; must have been confused; must _still_ be confused, since she has been under a lot of stress recently, because that's the only logical explanation as to why she's said all of this, it's…it's not _possible_ that's he's missed something again, not another big event that's crushed a life not _again, _no.

_No._

She's just… scared and confused and upset, that's all, nothing else don't think about it and he closes his eyes and clamps down hard on his tongue nails piercing his palms and teeth slicing through and it burns it all _burns_.

But- but it's OK, really it is really it _will_ be, see, it's already starting to fade, yes, it must be, or else he's simply getting used to it is used to it given how familiar this feeling is but no, _no_, he's not used to it won't ever be used to it because it's not normal not him and it really _is_ fading, it must be, just give it time, because it's just temporary, like all mistakes, but this can be fixed _she _can be fixed and all he has to do is push it away and stamp it down hard and it will be _fine_.

It's simply a case of mind over matter really, because he _knows_ he's right and not mistaken, not neglectful and, honestly, the very thought of him being that is laughable, that's the truth, that's the reality and he's glad to have found that again after it skittered out of sight for a flash, and so he doesn't really understand why his chest is tight and he feels sick to the very root of his code but some things happen, they just _happen_, and these are clearly unrelated fluctuations that are nothing to worry about because they don't _mean_ anything; they're not related and don't matter and once this is over he'll investigate them later, no problem.

It's fine, all fine, all; _fine_. He's not a problem he doesn't have a problem and there is no problem.

There _is._ no. _problem_.

He swallows roughly, painfully; swallows it all and gets rid of those stars by opening his eyes quickly and turning back around briskly.

The curious yet hopeful look on her face is wiped clean away when she sees the expression on his.

'I know _many_ things, Princess von Schweetz,' he informs her blandly. 'And one of those is that it's time to begin.'

Vanellope sniffs, unable to dry her blinking eyes. 'What?'

'It's time to _end _what I hope hasn't already begun._'_

'_What?' _

He suppresses a sigh. 'You are the leader of your game, correct?'

'I- what?'

'_Please_ stop making me repeat myself.'

She gulps, forcing her eyes to become more focused.

'…yes…'

'And _as_ the leader you only want the best for your game's inhabitants, yes?'

'…yes.'

'Which means you have to protect them, yes?'

'Yes.'

He's reached her side now; reached the table she's lying on and strapped to with glitch proof chains, restrained lightly yet securely for her own good, on a comfortable surface that for some reason makes her squirm as if it's covered in shards of glass.

She returns his gaze steadily, clearly trying to unravel what she thinks are trick questions as he continues.

'And to _be_ a protector you must understand that you don't just shield them from outside forces; sometimes you have to protect them from themselves.'

'No- no-one's a danger in my game. Not any more!'

'I'm afraid that's incorrect, Princess.' He leans closer, allowing a heavy drop of sympathy to infect his words. 'Sugar Rush's leader is _still_ a threat to those around them.'

He carefully extracts one hand from his pocket, admiring the light glinting off of the needle as he raises it.

'And that threat has to be removed.'

She tenses hard, sucking in her breath and pushing back down and away, as if she can bleed into the table and become part of it; can erase the sight in front of her and escape from what she fears is about to be done and she looks _terrified_, so terrified and _why_ would she have reason to look like that?

'No, what- _what_ are you _doing? _What-'

'I'm not going to _hurt_ you,' he reassures her kindly, dimly aware that for some reason his pulse is beating out of sync and there's a dull blur at the edge of his vision but _acutely_ aware that everything will all be better once this is done.

The lights are bright and warm but one of them must be broken, because there's also a slight buzzing – a soft _drone_ – that's eating into his ears but that also doesn't matter, because it's just another minor issue that will no doubt resolve itself soon.

He twitches to the left with a small grimace, flinching slightly as she recoils greatly, her eyes growing wider as she tries to make herself smaller and none of that makes any sense really, as he gets closer and closer but not _too_ close of course; not this time; not this time as he finally stops and straightens and she _looks_ at him.

'…what are you going to do?'

'I am going to help you,' he answers, as if this is the most obvious thing in the world.

She switches suddenly, no longer cowering but _glaring _at him now. 'No, _you_ need to be helped! You're _sick!_'

He tilts his head, catching a beam of light that bounces off his glasses. '…no, _you_ are wrong. I am right and I-…well I am the _cure_.'

He attempts a smile, and regards her with the level of sympathy she deserves. 'I am _your_ cure.'

Her eyes shimmer, cracking in front of him, even as she fights to keep that rage pasted on her face. 'You're _sick_. Like, _all_ the ways you can be sick, you- you must have a virus or, or something, because you're not right! You're not acting _right!_'

'I am the _arcade's_ cure,' he continues, as if she hadn't spoken. 'Even if- even if they don't know it; even if they don't know they _need_ it because they do, _oh_, believe me when I say that they do.'

Her eyes are darting now; stuttering and calculating and her words are being released in a breathy rush. '_You_ need to be helped. Not like in a psycho sense I mean; more like in a- a- a _real_ sense, I mean have- have you even _checked _that you're not comin' down with a computer virus or something?'

He smiles wider, not because he appreciates her concern, but because he hasn't forgotten how to be generously indulgent. He knows time wasting when he sees it, and her plan to stall him won't work.

But he only wants to help her and put her at ease, so he stays quiet and stills his hand.

She interprets this stance wrongly, and it's almost sad to see that flare of hope spark in her eyes as she raises her head up and changes the pitch of her voice.

'Yeah, that would make sense and it's, like, totally fine- well not _fine_ fine, I mean it's no big deal that you're sick; you can be cured or learn to control it, like I've had to do, so- so don't worry; you helped me control my glitch out of my game and- and in return _I'll_ help you. I _want_ to help you.'

He relaxes his mouth at the same time he feels that white hot pain in his head come to a final rest. Its heat is bleeding away and it's beginning to harden and split into two sharp points behind his eyes.

And- and they're moving; he feels those shards _moving_ outwards from inside of him, pushing at the very back of his eyes in a way that could be _another _thing that builds up and up and just won't stop until they've broken through, but that's fine it's all _fine _because it _will_ stop once he's finished helping them.

'Thank you _ever_ so much for that belated offer of comfort and support,' he responds quietly. 'But it's with _aching_ regret that I cannot accept it. It wouldn't be fair of me to do so, because I _didn't_ help you and you _certainly_ cannot help that which needs no alteration.'

She doesn't fully understand what he's saying but she _does_ know that the tone of his voice means he hasn't been convinced, and that she's not getting out of here so quickly. She's still curious and _still_ scared, as she swallows thickly and darts her eyes around again. 'What- what do you mean by _helping_ me? ...what do you mean by helping the _others_ in my game?'

'Did you know that Fix-It Felix Junior would get unplugged?' he asks sharply.

'_What?_ No, of _course _I didn't! _No_-one saw that coming!'

'_Exactly!' _he agrees harshly, his voice threatening to become a hiss again. 'It took us completely by surprise with not even a hint of a warning, _nothing_.'

She's looking at him fearfully again, tongue darting out to touch her dry lips. '…so what- what are you; what you're sayin' is…'

He forces his voice into something steadier, something smoother. 'What I am saying is that such a thing could happen to _any _game here. But some games are more…susceptible than others. Some games draw more…_attention_ to themselves.'

He nods at her slowly, so that there's no mistake.

'Some _characters_ draw more attention to themselves.'

She shudders as if a current's been passed through her, as this insinuation hits her hard. 'Oh no, no, _no_ - _I_ don't draw attention to myself! I don't even _race _all the time, you know that!'

He nods again, this time in agreement. 'Your game has been around for fifteen years, and fifteen years is a long time span we can both understand. It is a timescale we can both… _appreciate_.'

He taps the side of the needle against his leg, considering; a dull _clink clink clink _as it strikes the metal still resting safely in his pocket.

'But try to see it from the gamers' point of view: you've appeared out of _nowhere_, and I do mean _nowhere_. The regular players unlocked every bonus and character and power-up level _years_ ago, and have checked that there's nothing more for them to uncover. Various internet forums have confirmed that. Or was it a _combination_ of forums and chat-rooms? But that's not the point; the point is that you've just _appeared_, so what on _earth _will they think of that?'

She falls silent.

'So far no-one's raised the alarm at the sudden appearance of a new character in your game, and maybe they never will. Or maybe they _have_ and won't ever do anything about it. But no-one did anything about the new characters in Fix-It Felix Junior until it suddenly got sold and removed, did it?'

_Clink clink clink _now slightly faster and definitely harder, as he continues at a pace.

'Do _you_ have any proof that won't happen to _your_ game as well? Because I don't! Or perhaps you simply think that I –that _we_ – should just…take a chance, should just…_wait and see_? Hmmm? Do you? Do you _really_ want to take those chances when your subjects are at stake? When their _lives_ are at stake? Do you really want to gamble with peoples' very _existence_ and just _allow _them to be wiped away while you stand at the sidelines doing _nothing_?'

He knows his voice has raised again and wishes it hasn't but it _has_, and it's so _hard_ to keep it in check when she's being so unreasonable and _why_ does she have to look at him like that?

'Well?' he demands, as her face contracts. '_DO YOU?_'

'No!' she shrieks, finally overcome. But there's _nothing_ I can do!'

'Yes, There, _Is!'_ he counters instantly, caught up in an unstoppable momentum. _'You_ are prepared; _you _can see the possi_bility_ of what might happen; _you_ know there's a _chance_ of something terrible happening yet you _choose_ to do nothing! _Nothing! _Have you _any_ idea what it's like to _not _be so well prepared? No? Well you should count yourself _lucky_, because it's not worth living once you've got the feeling that you're-'

He falls silent, but not out of choice. Rather he's…_cut_ off, as if something has struck him and severed something so easily and smoothly and permanently that's it's almost unreal.

He appears as if he's studying something far away, something small and distant, blank gaze boring two holes through the walls like acid, until he jerks as if struck and that look collapses onto her, unblinking unmoving and _terrible._

'…please, you're- you're not _right, please, _don't-…just don't…'

'…we all have to do things we don't want to, Vanellope. Just-sometimes we do; that is the very _nature_ of being a guardian.'

Her eyes harden again as she tenses and switches _track_ again, because she can't help being who she is any more than he can.

'You're even sicker than _he _was.'

He forces himself not to snap the needle in half. 'I am _not_.'

'_Yes_ you _are_, 'cause why do this in the first place, huh? _Why? _You just said you poked about in my code room, so why not _help_ me _that_ way? Why you gotta _strap_ me down and blabber on about _nothing_ just because it makes you feel better about yourself? How is _that_ helping me?'

'…because you deserve to receive a full explanation. You _all _did.'

'That- what? All? You- you mean there have been… _others_ before me? You've done this to _others?'_

'…they've not experienced _exactly_ this, no.'

She's struggling to keep that righteous rage on her face again. He doesn't blame her, since she's still a child even after all she's been through, and she' s putting up an admirable fight. Misplaced clearly, but he can respect her determination.

But even children deserve to hear the truth instead of lies, regardless of how bitter one may be over the other.

'Why- why can't you just _help_ me by goin' through my code room again?' she asks, whole body trembling now. 'If you've- if you're _really_ got- got to do this, then why-' Her voice is being coughed out now; it's being forced through the tears and the pain and made to form words when all it really wants to do is scream. 'Then why- why don't you just check out- check out my- our, _our_ code boxes, and- and twist a few wires or rip some out and you're done; you're _done_! And there's- there's no need- there's no need for us to _see_ and to make me _suffer_ like this!'

He supresses the desire to inform her that no, she's wrong, because not _everyone_ had to watch what he did to them, but he suspects this won't help his cause much.

Instead he tilts his head and frowns slightly, both curious and regrettably bemused.

'The…last time someone manipulated a code box they weren't thought of too fondly, were they?'

Her jaw drops.

'And you think you _will_ be?!'

Her incredulity is insulting and her viewpoint skewered, no doubt a result of her current…_predicament_, never mind that it's temporary and he's explained this _several_ times now but she's just not _listening_, so it's time to begin work now before he splinters completely.

'Those in charge often don't _want_ to do things Vanellope, but sometimes they _must_.'

He steadies his hand and removes the safety cap off the needle's tip. He passes the syringe from one hand to the other and back again; once, twice and then a third time, back and forth, back and forth as he settles down to wait.

'…please, don't; don't kill me, I- I don't _want_ to die…'

He quirks an eyebrow. 'I'm not going to _kill _you; what do you take me for? You have to be removed from your game, but you don't have to be _deleted_; that would just be _cruel_. You need to be safely secured away, so that you don't come to harm; so that _others _don't come to harm. Such an action will be for the _best_, Vanellope; it will be safe and it will be secure, and-

…and it will be permanent. There will be no. more. doubts.'

He bows his head to her.

'For which I thank you. For which the _arcade_ thanks you.'

And now he waits.

For a good ling while – longer than he'd have liked – she pleads passionately with him. He understands that her survival instinct is fierce and that she'll muster every drop of it, and he admires the various arguments she breathlessly fires at him, using every possible chance and angle to try and change his mind.

Still he waits, not moving and not saying a word. Not…_rushing_ her.

When it finally happens it's nothing more than a shadow behind her eyes that are overlaid with a reflected light. But he sees it, actually _sees _it; doesn't miss it _hasn't_ missed it and oh this relief makes him _smile_ as she explodes.

She jerks up as high as she can, glitch proof chains cutting in sharply to her arms legs body head, but she acts like they're made of something that can be broken if _only_ she can hold out for long enough and _only_ if she has enough will, and she does she really does, and her escape attempts _must _work in the end, they _must_, because she's _good_ and doesn't _deserve _this, and if she can escape from _him _after fifteen years then she can escape from this, she has to and she will, she _will_, because this isn't how she's destined to end, not after all she's been through, and maybe there isn't a Ralph here any more but she's still strong and can still survive and she _will_, she _will_, as she thinks about him and what he did and she _strains_ against the chains, doesn't care that she's bruised and they're cutting into her and bleeding her because that doesn't _matter_, not if she can escape and she's _yelling_ now; yelling such terrible things and she's going to damage her voice but she doesn't _care_ because that _also_ doesn't matter, and now she's shouting and thrashing and she's closed her eyes now, shut them tight, and she's taken a deep breath to prepare to shout some more, to shout so loud the shockwaves will blast him back, blast her free, and now her back's arched muscles tensed chest sucked in head thrown back her hands are fists and-

He sticks the needle in her neck smoothly, quickly, depressing the plunger and withdrawing it at the same time she exhales and _screams_.

Her jaw cracks and locks in place, her open mouth now a frozen statue of astonished agony.

Which is an unfortunate pose for her to convey really, because the anaesthetic he's specifically mixed for her means she's certainly not feeling any pain, he's quite sure of that.

Her arms and legs go next; one, two, three, four limbs that tremble and then snap into place.

He could _really_ make sure by breaking each one, but there's no need for that; he's confident in his chemistry and, really, time's pressing on now.

After the outer extremities her core finally stills, until the only part of her moving is her eyeballs. They snap and dart and leak, until he gently places a hand on her chest and they shudder and roll back into her head.

He glances briefly at the blank white orbs on her face, now so still she could be mistaken for dead, as he spread his fingers over her chest. Her heart – her code's approxi_mation_ of a heart – is beating to the rhythm he expected.

She needs to be removed fully from her game, but he's not going to kill her; he's not a _murderer_.

Turbo tried to kill her because he was selfish, whereas what's happening here is the exact opposite: he is going to save her from herself because he is self_less._

He reaches into his pocket and takes one of the metal objects out. It's a small skeleton key, shiny copper with sharp pointed teeth which clearly hasn't been used much. He inserts it into each of the keyholes on the chains, and carefully removes them from her.

He'll clean them up before returning them to Sugar Rush, but not to the fungeon though – Vanellope had ordered that be torn down and re-modelled as soon as her game had re-set. Instead there's some sort of disco-party-game room in there, but that's certainly no sort of place for a set of heavy chains.

He ponders as he collects them up, thinking that maybe he'll place them over the main entrance doors to the castle.

Or even em_bed_ them into the doors themselves. As, you know, a reminder.

Yes, a reminder, he decides contentedly, as he turns off every light except one and exits the room, closing the door softly behind him.

They will be a reminder to everyone that their game's main threat has been neutralised, and that they can breathe easy again.

It will be a reminder that their world won't suddenly be ripped _apart_ again.

Except….except he's not _completely_ as content as he thought he'd be, as he looks at the closed white door as if he could see through it into the room it conceals and the person it protects.

It's quite irritating actually, as he begins to tap the now empty syringe against his leg again.

He sighs and blinks, looks around but doesn't move, and as his gaze stops on the pure smooth ceiling above, so does his hand.

They've all been left up there for quite a while now, and he really hopes they haven't all killed themselves in a stupid panic, or else all he's just done has been a complete waste of time. They- oh, _oh; _maybe _that's_ why he's feeling the way he is, as the thought strikes him and then soothes him.

He'd identified three threats to the arcade, but they were just the main and _immediate _ones. They- they can't have been the _only _ones.

Yes, this _must _be the reason, because why else would he be feeling so unsettled?

He thinks hard as to who the other threat could be. Who the other threat_s_ still _are_.

Again there's that scratch of irritation that's beginning to make him feel sick, so he closes his eyes to concentrate.

…he doesn't know.

He doesn't know and he can't identify who else is a danger, who's lurking up there _right this second_, and he's learnt enough to divert his thoughts away before they take him down this familiar spiking path again, and after he throws up a roadblock he takes a breath, opens his eyes, and _admits_ it.

He doesn't know who else is a danger, but he _does_ know they must exist.

They- they _must _exist, and so-and so he'll just have to find out who they are the long way.

He takes the second metal object out of his pocket, examining it for signs of damage. It's another key but silver this time, cut into the shape of a wafer thin rectangle with a dull red line running around its edge. Finding it in perfect shape he slots it into the nearly invisible keyhole in the door, a hair-thin black line, and runs a finger along the tiny bit of red left visible.

The key pulses briefly, ink black and cherry red, before all colour bleeds away to leave it an ash grey as it pulses again and then _smokes,_ before the door trembles and eats it entirely.

This locking encryption is unbreakable, and as soon as he gets back to his office he'll purge his own memory bank so even he can't remember how to enter her room again.

There's hours left yet until the arcade is due to open, which means he can…_question_ most of them before then. He'll be quick and precise and _thorough_, won't miss a thing as he meets with them one by one and _certainly_ won't be doing nothing as he examines them. This time he really will live up to his name and they'll _thank_ him for it, they really will.

He takes a step back from the door.

It's better if he gets this over and done with now, before anything else can slip by him.

He takes another step back, and it's all coming into perspective now.

It will be _better_ for them if they have to undergo any treatment sooner rather than later, and it will be better for _him_ if he can do his job quicker.

He takes another step back, the final one, and casts one last look at the door before turning around to face the dimly lit corridor in front of him.

And it _really_ will be better for everyone if he chooses to be safe rather than sorry.

He calmly starts to walk forward, into those pools of sickly light, and allows himself the indulgence of a faint smile.

_Wait and see? _

Well just wait until they see what he's going to do _now_.


End file.
